Have a little faith (in the weather)

August 30th, 2010

This morning the view that greeted my eyes as I descended from the mezzanine that serves as our bedroom at Les Terraces looked like this:

morning river mist

morning river mist

It is hardly a view to inspire confidence in a mid-summer day’s weather.  Unless,  of course, you’ve seen it before, which we have.  River mist is a regular feature of mornings in Sainte-Foy-La-Grande, both summer and winter.  By the time I’d paddled around making coffee, showering, fielding emails from clients, printing off the morning crossword and run a load through the washing machine things were beginning to improve:

the river mist thins & rises

the curtain rises..........

Somewhat theatrically, the mist lifts and thins, and then teasingly descends again before dispersing completely (I thought that the cloud formations were pretty cool).  By lunch time everything was back to normal.

summer in the pays foyen

Life returns to normal (and the laundry is dry!)

By 5 o’clock the temperature was a very comfortable 32° in the shade, and supper on the terrace very comfortable.  Time for me to get back to work – there’s a very demanding young thrush that we’ve nick-named “Mr. Chuckles” on account of the song that he makes on his approach to the bird-feeder (you can just make it out on the terrace wall) who us currently bouncing up and down on the wall letting me know that there is no bread there for him!

Simply enjoying life

August 28th, 2010

I’ve said it before and, no doubt, I’ll say it many more times – both in this blog and elsewhere – Life here is good.  Yes, we are incredibly privileged in that we are able to spend 2-3 months a year here, but please don’t believe that we take it for granted.  It is probable that, as we’re only here for relatively short periods instead of full time, our honeymoon with France will be longer than normal. But I don’t see this as a problem.

The view from our terrace(s) provides a constantly changing canvas of activities to regard: the fishermen quietly idling away a few hours, people canoeing down the river, older folks sitting enjoying the view, (previously mentioned) teenagers canoodling where they think no-one is watching, the diverse bird life – swans drifting serenely, herons poised expectantly, ducks dabbling busily, moorhens diving, a kingfisher hunting, and our beloved swifts (house martins too) providing us with hours of summer entertainment as they swoop above our heads in search of insects.

A poney club camping trip

A poney club camping trip

Last weekend this view was augmented by the arrival of a Poney Club (yes,that’s how it is spelt here (and that’s the English version of “spelled”!)) camping trip. The ponies were tethered in a long line between two trees, and it was only when they were unsaddled that we realised that they were staying the night.  The girls were lucky, as it was a warm and dry night for them to sleep close to the horses.

Poney Club camping by the beach

The Poney Club riders sleeping by the beach

The following morning there were about 17 small heaps of sleepers who slowly got up, gathered their bed rolls and made use of the loos and showers at Sainte-Foy Plage.

Sadly, there was a down-side to this – the horses were left tethered in the same spot for almost 24 hours.  Where their riders went that morning is beyond me, but by mid-afternoon there were a lot of displeased and distressed ponies whinnying for relief from the intense sun and what must have been quite a thirst, plus boredom.  Before long a large trailer and a few smaller ones arrived, and everyone drove home.

Bits n’ Pieces

August 15th, 2010

We’ve been back at Les Terraces for (incredibly) just over a fortnight now.  We arrived tired, but in one piece, just in time to turn the Ground Floor around the following day.  It’s quite a big switch from “Alex the Administrator” to “Lucy the Laundrymaid” roles.  I suspect that the “Alex” role is financially more rewarding, but the “Lucy” role is clearly better for my fitness!

We’ve welcomed a wonderful range of guests – a group of 4 friends from varied backgrounds, all currently based in the UK; a Mexican/Dutch family, an Australian couple, an American family doing a whistle-stop tour of France and a single English lady – and enjoyed all of them.

We’ve not had the chance to get out-and-about much, as greeting guests, cleaning, trying to get the car “immatriculated” here in France, trouble-shooting the occasional glitch that inevitably arises in a house of this age, and preparing to make our case with the Architect des Bâtiments de france, who has turned down our planning application for changes to the top terrace  (we have a rendez-vous for 7th September in this regard) has largely put paid to such leisure activities.

People of all ages join the fun

We have, however, enjoyed what we can of the weekly market and the accompanying people-watching while doing turnarounds and been lucky enough to catch 2 “Marchés des Producteurs de Pays” here in Sainte-Foy-la-Grande.  These events, organised by our friend Trudi, the Cultural Officer at the Mairie, are part of a nationwide celebration & promotion of France’s patrimony.  They are events where the producers of food (beef, duck & foie gras, cheese, organic beer, wine, ice-cream, oysters and so forth) set up stands where they prepare the items that they specialise in for consumption on the spot to the accompaniment of live music.  The first week that we went Graham enjoyed faux filet de bœuf with sauté potatoes, while I tucked into magret de canard ave pommes rustique.  Each main dish cost 9€.  A bottle of silver-medal award winning red set us back a further 5€ and we enjoyed some excellent Celtic music on fiddle & mandocello.  This week we had a houseful of guests and chose to go only for some bread, cheese and duck rillettes (5€ for more than the two of us could eat) plus another excellent bottle of red for the same price.

Residents and tourists mingle and eat at long trestle tables

Today, Sunday, we have enjoyed a day of rest (after taking care of cleaning our flat, of course).  Being a true product of my upbringing – my father is as much of a going-seeing-and-doing-things as my mother – it was time to go and see/do something new for ourselves.  I settled on going to see the bastide town of Monpazier.  Our new Australian guests were heading off to Issigeac to see the market, so we offered to show them the route down, as it was on our way to Monpazier.  It has been a blustery day of sunshine and showers, which may have been in our favour, as Monpazier was surprisingly devoid of tourists.   It wasn’t a day for taking pictures, which is a good thing as the battery of my camera was pretty much dead.  That said, the original taxation system did catch my eye ….

Medieval taxation systems

Medieval taxation systems - these vats were used to measure grain for "impots"

However, I walked around some of the town (including a surprise access to one of the fortified gates to the town) and we sat and enjoyed a pression in the town square in what little sunshine there was.  While we were there a little girl, who can’t have been more than 4 and tired, caught my eye.  She was dressed as only a French child would be and her red-and-white gingham 3/4 length trousers (embroidered with cherries) along with her little red shoes  was too precious not to save for posterity……….

an oh-so-chic 4 year old's shoes

an oh-so-chic 4 year old's shoes

Tackling (French) bureaucracy

August 3rd, 2010

I spend my life working with bureaucrats.  My clients would far rather pay me to navigate the minefields of “new” requirements and egos than do so themselves.  However, it is rare that I do so for myself.  Our move to France has changed some of that.  A lot of that.

We’re currently running 2 applications: one to make some changes to the top terrace of Les Terraces – we’d like to be able to see the river while we’re sitting down; the second is to import Graham’s much-loved and cherished Jaguar XKR Cabrio.

The application for the planning permission was initiated when we were last here, in April.  We knew that there would be some challenges – not those of being required to present an application in French and in triplicate, but that Les Terraces is deemed to be a building of historical importance and, as such, any application to make changes to the building (inside or out) has to be scrutinised by L’architecte des bâtiments de france.  His response arrived at the Mairie here in Sainte-Foy-La-Grande on 30th July.  The clerical officer who handles this aspect of the Mairie’s role was off.  I saw her yesterday and she told me that “Yes, a decision has been made.  It isn’t favourable, but not to worry.”  She couldn’t recall exactly what the response was but, apparently, we can reapply.  She’s sending me a letter via registered post to relay the decision to us!

The car has been a totally different story.  It’s a long one, so I’ll cut out the beginning and just say that there were a few frustrations in obtaining copies of the required documentation and getting them here to France.  Having got them to Sara, who was helping us with the process while we were back in the Virgin Islands, she then ran into the intractability of Mme. L-, the wife of the owner of the garage where the car is stored when we’re away.

Graham has relied on the very useful information to be found on the AngloInfo web site to guide us through the process.  On Monday morning we went to see M. L- to pay the bill for the work that he had done on the car since we last left and to ask him about the “Controlle Technique” for the Certificat d’Immatriculation.  He said that in order to do this he had to have the UK registration documents (that were in Sara’s possession).  I rang Sara who, as expected, said that Mme L- had never said a word about needing this document in order to undertake the French version of the MOT test. We leapt into the car and drove east for an hour to retrieve the documents.  Next on the list of requirements was to obtain a certification from the French finance department.  Thanks to Trudi in the Mairie I discovered that the office here in Sainte-Foy can’t handle this and that a drive to the Centre des Impôts in Libourne was necessary.  Back into the car for a rapid run into Libourne, where we arrived with minutes to spare.  Crucially, I couldn’t work out where, exactly, the tax office was, as traffic was 1-way alongside the river (inevitably the wrong way), so we had navigated by the seat of our pants.  We stopped at a petrol station for directions and, incredibly, they sent us back into town.  Graham and I were now getting cross at each other and I decided to stop at the first Police Nationale office and seek better advice from them.  To my enormous frustration (and secret satisfaction) they sent us back to where we had just been …….. the tax office was less than 100 yards from the garage…. but it was 1 minute after closing time!

We went there again today, armed with a sheaf of papers and the dictionary (just in case).  To our amazement we were out again in less than half an hour, new document in hand and not a centime paid in tax!  Back to M. L-for the controlle technique … after all, as he’s been working on the car all year it should be a simple rubber stamp.  Well, that’s what we thought.  But no, off to another garage tomorrow for that, and then make an appointment at the Préfecture in Libourne – fortunately we don’t have to go to Bordeaux – to present all of our documents for the final stage.  There is, however, a fly in the ointment ……….. M. L- seems to think that the certificate of conformity that we have is in the wrong language.

We’ll keep you posted.

weather!

July 21st, 2010

Let me start by saying that not only did I not have the camera with me today, but also that even if I had I don’t think that I could have caught any of the really impressive lightning strikes that we saw today.  We’ve had 4 days of rain that have deposited no less than 10cm on our small, steep, rocky islands.  The lightning has been no less than impressive.  The thunder has rocked both the house and the office significantly and the power fluctuations finally caused us to close the office early today.  Now there’s a trial.

We repaired to the yacht club and sat on the balcony watching grey clouds form a monotonal background to lightning bolts that displayed themselves as pale pink in contrast and listened to cracks of thunder that were attention-getting to say the least.  And compared “war stories”of hurricane seasons past.

Today Sainte-Foy-La-Grande offered clear blue skies with a high of 31-32°C.  I know that the view from the terraces at Les Terraces was not only inviting, but also addictive.  I hope that when we arrive next week it will still be as good, but if it isn’t I know that a vigneron or two will be smiling as the gods grace their crops with a little extra rain.

Homesick? Probably!

July 6th, 2010

We’re getting ready to go home to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande again.  And it doesn’t feel too soon at all.  Not that I’m counting, but it is 3 weeks and 4 days before we arrive.  I could calculate the minutes too, but you get my drift?

I went grocery shopping on Saturday morning, as normal.  On most Saturday mornings we have a weekly treat of half a large croissant each with butter and Aileen’s wonderful home-made marmalade, the croissants ostensibly “fresh-baked” .  In truth, they are never baked from scratch on-site.  They are part-baked frozen pieces that have emerged hot and flaky from the oven that morning.  However, all too often they have been baked the day before and no self-respecting Frenchman wold recognise them as edible, let alone a croissant.  This week there were none at the bakery counter.  So I decided that I’d try making my own and duly found a recipe that purports to be from the chefs of the SS France.

Now, it has to be said that it isn’t actually difficult to make a croissant.  But it is a lengthy and involved process to say the least.  Graham was quickly questioning the rationale behind the endeavour.  However,  I persisted – made the dough and parked it in the fridge alongside a sort of beurre manier concoction to cool.  Meanwhile we retired to the yacht club where we devoured Sonia’s fabulous West-Indian oxtail for lunch.

When we returned from lunch I pulled the packages of dough and butter from the fridge to allow them to reach room-temperature, or a reasonable facsimile of room temperature in your average French boulangerie.  When the two were more malleable they were rolled together in accordance with the recipe that I had obtained.  The butter wasn’t soft enough, but by then I felt that had no choice but to keep going!  I rolled and folded, and rolled and folded, and wrapped in damp tea-towels as instructed, and returned the whole bundle (now the size of a small pillow) to the fridge.  Yesterday morning I once again removed the dough from the fridge, along with some pastry dough that I had made the night before.  While everything rested I started a load of bread dough ……… no, I’m not feeding an army: I’m just being efficient about using the oven!

It felt like forever before I finally rolled out the croissant dough to the prescribed width, length and thickness, stripped away the uneven edges with a pizza cutter and consigned the triangles of the dough to the fridge for a further resting period.  In the interim I made a quiche filling (alas, not a traditional Lorraine), knocked the bread dough down and shaped it for a standard 1lb tin loaf.

Eventually, the triangles of croissant dough were shaped into “second class” straight rolls – they were too tiny to try and shape into crescents -brushed with egg wash and left to prove (apparently on the SS France first class passengers received crescent-shaped croissants, while second class straight ones, as the bakers could fit more onto each baking sheet that way).  They definitely doubled in size before they were committed to the oven in the final, not-quite-nail-biting, episode of this experiment.  I couldn’t resist peeking occasionally as they rose yet more in the heat of the oven and tanned to a classic golden hue.

croissants - first attempt!

Croissants - our first attempt

At (long) last I pulled the sheets of tiny croissants from the oven and left them to cool on a baking rack, alongside the loaf of bread and quiche (spinach, onion & Stilton).  The anticipation was now too much to bear.  I loaded croissants onto side plates with a little butter and, for Graham, a smidgeon of Aileen’s marmalade and delivered them to the master-of-the-house for the taste test.  Apparently, I passed, but they’re not flaky enough – yet.  It took as long to make them as it does to fly trans-Atlantic, but it was much cheaper and a lot more satisfying.  That said, I have a date with my favourite boulangerie on rue Victor Hugo for 2 croissants at 0700 on 30th July!

Living Seasonally

June 18th, 2010

We’ve been living in the West Indies for such a long time that it takes some time to readjust to proper seasons and all that each season brings – both trials and tribulations.

Perhaps the biggest of the challenges is going grocery shopping.  I know that this sounds funny but really, it is a challenge!  Here in the BVI, where almost every food product is imported (including bananas and mangoes), we’re accustomed to being able to get a wide range of produce year-round. Bell peppers, strawberries (that taste of nothing more than cotton-wool for the most part, I grant you), swedes, a few varieties of melons & apples are almost always to be found on the shelves.  Not necessarily tasting great, or in the best of shape, but they are all still there.

In France we can only buy what is in season at the time.  Now, don’t get me wrong – this isn’t a bad thing by any stretch of the imagination.  But it is difficult to get used to only being able to buy vegetables in the season in which it grows naturally in France.  I am happy with the trade-off ….. who wouldn’t prefer to have produce that, in many cases, was only picked from the bush/plucked from the sea/dug from the ground first thing this morning or, at worst, last night?  We enjoy this bounty 6 days a week in Sainte-Foy as Monday – Friday there is always a vegetable stall, and often two or three, in La Place de la Mairie and every Saturday we have our weekly market, which fills several streets with stalls laden with fruit & vegetables, fish & shellfish, olives & spices, meat, poultry & chartcuterie products, live plants, wine, milk & cheeses …….. you get the picture.  Seasonal abundance.  An embarrassment of good food.

Market stalls at Sainte-Foy-La-Grande

Live plants and other things

Fish stall at Sainte-Foy-La-Grande's weekly market

The freshest of fish

But, when you’re not used to it (buying fresh food seasonally), it takes some adaptation.  In France you can’t simply decide that tonight you’ll have a stir fry with fresh bean sprouts, bok choy and whatever else takes your fancy and tomorrow you’ll have steak & ale pie with mashed neeps & tatties (yellow turnip and potatoes, for the non-Gælic speaker), and with friends round for dinner the next night you’ll start with some fresh asparagus … You get my drift.  In France, or at least in our bit of it, if it isn’t in season in France (or a French overseas departement) you don’t have that wide variety available.  However, you do know that when the strawberries are in season they are superb and well-priced and the same applies across the produce board.

There are the same (but not as widely marked) variations to be found in the cheeses that are available.  Here in the BVI it’s the same selection year-round, with a few extra special cheeses at Christmas. In France you get Brebis de Printemps at Easter, but an aged Brebis is generally available year-round.  I could go on, but you know what I mean.

There is one other aspect of food shopping that is astonishingly different: in France the shelves are stocked full all of the time (and I love the little produce-misting gadgets that keep everything fresh and moist), whereas here half the time they’re empty, or only full of one brand of something.  In life there will always be trade-offs.  The challenge is learning to enjoy them.

Waxing Historical

May 19th, 2010

It is thanks to my mother that I am a confirmed visitor of historical monuments.  My father was often away at sea and she was ever looking for inexpensive ways to keep my sister & me busy at weekend, so she had a National Trust membership, for which she truly got her money’s worth.  I think that my earliest stately home memory is of Cotehele in Cornwall when I was 6.  I must hasten to say that these visits were never boring, even for a 6-year old, as my mother has an astonishing memory for the “naughty bits” of history.

We would wander from room to room and she’d point out things like commodes and explain how they were used – you can imagine how funny the mental imagery of a grown up sitting on the loo in public was for children; the subjects of enormous portraits hung on the walls would be identified and she would tell us who had had affairs with whom.  She made sure that we saw the well-hidden doors set into walls that allowed servants to make their way quickly and unobtrusively between one room and another, always remarking that the ladies & gentlemen of the house could avail themselves of the same facilities  occasionally for other, less virtuous reasons.  Inevitably this meant that she always had a small group who tagged along in her wake eavesdropping on our personal tour – often larger than the crowd assigned to an official guide.  Who wouldn’t?

I haven’t my mothers narrative gift, or her ability to store such a wide and eclectic mix of juicy historical facts in her head, but I do enjoy taking my time to explore the history of any area in which we find ourselves.  The first time that I did this with Mo was when we traveled to the UK to interview for school places when he was 10.  I took him to Winchester Cathedral when he was interviewed for a school close to the town.  At the time of our trip he was a big history fan and was fascinated by the ancient tombs of kings and the thought that we were walking on floors laid down by craftsmen hundreds of years before.  Needless to say, 7 years on he’s a little less enthralled but he is still pretty willing to follow me around from time-to-time.

Mo tries on some 13th century armour at Chateau de Beynac.

Mo tries on some 13th century armour at Chateau de Beynac.

Given Les Terraces’ enviable location, there is an abundance of places for us to visit.  My goal is to ensure that we go to at least 2 new sights each time we are in France ….. after all, there is only so much maintenance that we can deal with at any one time.

Down to the Sea

May 12th, 2010

It really is no exaggeration to say that we have spent our lives little more than a stone’s throw from the sea.  Mind you, as we both come from England that’s not hard to do, I guess.  I’m a Navy brat, so close proximity to the sea is a bit of a given.  Graham wasn’t, but he too was raised very close  to the sea.  As we have moved around the world each of us has lived pretty much in clear sight of it.  When we began to look for a home in Europe we set out a list of criteria to aid us in our search.  Being “in clear sight of a moving body of water” was the only non-negotiable requirement.  Climate was another significant factor, as were language and proximity to reasonable travel hubs.

I don’t think that even though most of the properties that we looked at on-line were at least 100 miles from the sea that we really thought that we would end up a 2-hour drive from it.  But we did.  Anyhow, during our last trip I had suggested that we make a run up to La Rochelle to scope out the old town.  Graham had sailed there many years ago, but I had only sailed the coastlines of Normandy & Brittany as a kid and thought that it would make an interesting day trip.  In the end we decided that it was a bit far to drive for lunch (3 hours each way) and, as by far the smallest of the three of us, it is I who gets to ride in the parcel shelf that is sold as the back seat of our car.  I am getting too old to imitate a pretzel for 6 hours in a day unless we’re doing something really important!  However, there was still a hankering to see the sea.  So we settled on a drive down to the Dune du Pilat and the Arcachon Basin, which is a 2-hour drive from Les Terraces.

The run was uneventful but did serve a useful purpose as it led me to believe that taking the rocade clockwise around Bordeaux might be the faster way to get to Bordeaux-Merignac than the northern anti-clockwise route.  As we headed SW away from Bordeaux the countryside flattened out, pancake style, and the foliage became much more heavily coniferous than in our end of the Gironde.  The soil became remarkably more sandy (not that Mo saw anything as he had his head in a book swatting for his Baccau mocks).

Once we turned off the A63 and onto the A660 for La Teste-de-Bouche we entered the realm of French holiday camps.  I had visions of being back on the Isle of Wight (where I went to school) with sticks of rock and kiss-me-quick hats!  I was astonished at the lines of traffic backed up towards the parking area adjacent to the Dune du Pilat – this was April.   God knows what it is like in July & August.

Anyway, Mo and I went off to conquer the Dune, leaving Graham sat comfortably with a coffee in the warm spring sunshine.  The Dune is amazing.  Purportedly the largest in Europe (although my father, who lived in Denmark for more than 20 years wondered whether the Danish one, which has obliterated an entire village, might not be larger) I stood on its crest wondering why it was there.  It is only one ridge deep, but high and long.  Sadly, the tourism information office, which might have provided some explanatory literature, was closed and the signage by the Dune is only in French – mine wasn’t equal to the task of translating more than about 30% – so Mo and I could only conjecture.

View from the Dune du Pilat

A view from the Dune du Pilat

A word to the wise ….. if you suffer  from vertigo don’t attempt the ascent of the dune.  I, who am happy to work at the top of a mast in a bosun’s chair, thought twice about the descent as the routine is that one climbs the dune using the stairs provided, but the descent is straight down through the sand and it is very steep, trust me!

Stairs up the side of the Dune du Pilat

This might give you some idea of the dune's height

The landward side of the Dune du Pilat

It's difficult to show quite how steep the side of the dune is

The Beauty of Beynac

May 9th, 2010

As you drive west down the D703 from Sarlat the Dordogne valley widens into a flat plain with ridges of hills roughly to the north and the south.  The Dordogne meanders in broad sweeps through it.  Off to your left is a chateau perched on a commanding promontory.  The road bears right and you pass under a railway bridge before bearing left again.  And there, hugging the steep northern bank, is the Chateau de Beynac.  It is, in a word, stunning.  I could come up with an extensive list of adjectives in a futile endeavour to describe it, but words simply won’t do it justice; well, I don’t think that those I have at my disposal will.  You’ll just have to see for yourself.

The first time I set eyes on Beynac was on a chilly, bright February afternoon in 2009.  Mo, Gina and I were heading to Sainte-Foy-La-Grande on our way back from a glorious day exploring the National Prehistoric Museum in Les Eyzies and the Lascaux caves.  All three of us breathed a heartfelt “Wow!” , and I made myself a promise to stop to explore it one day.

It was 15 months before I was able to to keep this promise to myself.  This Easter, on another beautiful day, Mo, my father and I drove east to Beynac (an hour-and-a-half keeping within the speed limit).  It was worth the wait.

We were lucky with our timing.  Easter had come and gone and the French school holiday had not yet started.  This meant that there were a few people around, but the town was by no means thronged with tourists.  We parked in the car park on the western side of the town, adjacent to the Dordogne. The tourism office is helpfully situated no more than 100 yards away.  Somewhat less than helpfully it was closed, in spite of the opening times posted on the door!  However, a reasonable stack of guidebooks had been left outside the door.

In Beynac there is really only one way to go, and we didn’t need the guidebook to show us.  You head up.  And up.  And up.  And then, just when you think that you’re there, you brace yourself for the last few feet.   The road is narrow.  A little wider than a donkey-cart.  It is cobbled, smooth and slightly treacherous.  The engineering of the road is a marvel, with runnels on both sides – I’m guessing for water or, perhaps, wheels.  There are shallow drains that run diagonally across the road every so often.  I am awestruck by the skill and work that went into creating it.  It has withstood centuries of daily use and wars.  It is in much better shape than contemporary roads built with all sorts of heavy equipment.

Beynac Panorama

View from the top ...... a 360 degree panorama of the view from the top of the Keep

The houses that line the road are petite.  They are lovingly cared for and definitely homes.  That sounds silly, but it isn’t.  The houses in Beynac are a remarkable contrast with those in Rocamadour, which has been turned into a medieval theme park with roving minstrels and waiters all wearing synthetic period costumes.

I think that it is this that makes Beynac so beautiful.  This is without doubt a town for which people have fought (and died).  Yes, Richard the Lionheart slept here having seized and held the castle for 10 years at the end of the Hundred Years war.  But to me its beauty lies in the fact that while it is inevitably a highlight for tourists there are many people who call it home.